


do you fondue?

by calciseptine



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Food, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Mild S&M, Rimming, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-02-25 15:42:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2627162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/pseuds/calciseptine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony has done crazy things in the name of food, but falling in love with Steve Rogers really takes the cake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a request from yolandaash: _steve/tony, iron chef au_. There is a surprising lack of food sex, despite ample opportunity.
> 
> As always, a thousand thanks to faorism. Nothing would be possible without their endless patience and willingness to bounce the same idea back and forth for weeks before my story actually takes shape. All my love to you waifu~

During the pre-production of season four of _Iron Man_ , the network creates a list of potential guest stars to challenge Tony for his title. Out of fifty candidates, two people officially decline the invitation. The first is Reed Richards. The second is Steve Rogers.

Tony could care less about Reed. Reed has recently opened another restaurant—which specializes in molecular gastronomy—on 42nd and Madison called Baxter's. Tony has no doubt that it's as pretentious, small, and dimly lit as his first restaurant, and that it would be a waste of his time to visit. Besides, if Tony _does_ visit, any quality the food has will be ruined the moment Reed comes out of the kitchen to gloat about opening a second restaurant before Tony, because Reed is a _dick_.

But Reed's refusal doesn't sting the way Steve Roger's refusal stings. Being a guest star on _Iron Man_ is a meal ticket—pun intended—and Steve has virtually no public presence. To date, Steve's has only made two television appearances. There was the short interview he did with the network on a Up-And-Coming-Chefs segment about a year ago, as well as the stint he had making sugar cookies on the Martha Stewart Show back in November.

(In the latter, Steve been approachable and easy on the eyes in a long-sleeved blue shirt. The material had clung so tightly to his broad shoulders and rippling pectorals that watching him roll out the dough had been downright pornographic. If Tony ever finds out whose idea the blue shirt had been, he's going to send them an extremely expensive Edible Arrangement.)

Yet despite Steve's low visibility in the public eye, everyone who's anyone in the cooking world has heard of Steve Rogers. Even Pepper, who has been Tony's business partner since she graduated with her MBA from Brown, is impressed by Steve, despite his bare bones resumé. Rumor has it that Steve's mentor, Erskine, promoted Steve from kitchen-hand to line-cook to sous chef in the time span of ten months. Steve's restaurant has also won several prestigious awards since opening two years previously, including a James Beard award. Tony remains immensely skeptical.

"Tony," Pepper asks slyly, "You aren't _jealous,_ are you?"

"Jealous?" Tony scoffs. "I have _five_ James Beard awards, please."

Pepper, as always and with good reason, does not believe him.

Eventually, Tony's professional curiosity gets the better of him. It takes four hours to drive to D.C. from New York City on the I-95, but Tony has done crazier things in the name of food.

Much, _much_ crazier.

Steve Rogers owns a burger joint not far from the Mall simply called _Captain's_. It's a huge, open space with wooden floors and brick walls and high ceilings with the steel beams exposed, and the tables are tall and free-standing, minimalistic but surprisingly comfortable. The americana ambiance is welcoming enough, Tony supposes, but the food descriptions on the single page menu scream bland. By the time Tony's waiter arrives with his burger and fries, Tony is dubious of the rave reviews Steve has received.

This is, of course, before he takes a bite.

Tony's ground beef burger is medium-rare and perfectly juicy without being greasy. The meat has been prepared with an unexpected and delicious arrangement of spices that give it heat and flavor, but without becoming overpowering. The burger is stacked high on a toasted, homemade sesame bun with melted gruyère cheese, tangy red onion, a slice of peppered tomato, and several leaves of crisp lettuce. The simplicity of all these ingredients layers a multitude of tastes so seamlessly and so masterfully that, after his first bite, Tony sets the burger back down and takes a moment to appreciate Steve's skill.

Tony has always believed that the true mark of an excellent cook isn't about what you made, but how you made it. It doesn't matter where you studied or who you worked under, but whether or not you have an innate knowledge of how tastes blend together. You had to have a palate perceptive enough to pick up on the nuances in flavors and work those nuances to your advantage. It was never about how to make a variety of increasingly difficult recipes, but understanding how to create a simple experience.

And Tony—Tony desperately wants to go back in time so he can relive this experience. It's been a long time since Tony has wanted to do that.

It's possible that Tony falls a little bit in love.

.

Tony makes a habit of visiting _Captain's_ every third Sunday. He gets up early, dons a non-descript baseball cap and sunglasses as his foolproof disguise, and takes his most inconspicuous car out of the garage. He gets donuts and coffee on his way out of the city and listens to his favorite 80s hair bands, drumming his palms on the steering wheel as the scenery speeds by. It's always busy when Tony gets to the restaurant—the lunch rush in D.C. starts at eleven and dies around two, without any lulls during that three hour period—but he prefers it that way. No one approaches him, too focused on their own meals, and their distraction leaves Tony to enjoy his burger in peace.

By the time Tony's tried everything on the menu and gone often enough to have a favorite order—the Patriot, a beautiful arrangement of meat, fried egg, applewood smoked bacon, and a spicy aioli that makes Tony cry himself to sleep at night, seriously, what does Steve put in it, that shit cray—Pepper approaches him.

"I have the official guest list for next season," she tells him as she hands him the roster. Tony's eyes skip down the line of names. He has a few long-time friends on the list—Natasha, who wields her knives like an assassin rather than a _chef-de-cuisine_ ; Bruce, who has a shared love of gastronomy; Clint, who grew up on the road and can make anything from anything; and Thor, who takes hearty, traditional foods (usually meat and/or potatoes) to an extreme level—as well as a few professional rivals—the Mandarin, a theatrical goon from England who doesn't understand subtlety in any form; Maya Hansen, a vegan who Tony dated briefly during his first disaster of a network show; and Loki, of course, because their constant and disparaging commentary about the others' cooking always boost ratings.

(Tony still can't believe Thor and Loki are _married_ , like, _how does that even work?_ Thor's cooking makes Paula Deen's meals look like light, healthy snacks and Loki's style is so haute cuisine each meal is a maximum of three bites. Tony has _ended relationships_ with people who have disagreed with his culinary opinions.

The sex must be phenomenal, is all Tony's saying.)

This is when Tony's eyes reach the end of the list and Steve's name stares back at him, as real and absolute as any of the other names printed.

"Steve Rogers?" Tony absolutely does not squeak. "I thought he declined the network's offer."

"He did." Pepper gives Tony a long, inscrutable look. Tony hates that look. He has learned to fear that look. "His agent—Sharon—called me a few weeks ago and asked if it was too late to accept the network's offer. When I asked her why Steve had changed his mind, she told me that Steve wants to meet you in person because, apparently, you've been visiting his restaurant for months and have yet to say hello."

Tony wants to believe that, as a successful and confident forty-one-year-old man, he is beyond the soul-crushing embarrassment that had plagued him as a scrawny, food-obsessed teenager. Decades have passed since he has experienced this sudden spike of adrenaline that makes him want to flee the vicinity as fast as humanly possible, and it's possible that his cheeks, neck, and ears haven't been this red since he passed out drunk on that sunny beach in Cancún, either. A wounded noise escapes him and he slumps forward in his chair, hiding his face in his hands as his mortification takes over.

"Oh, Tony," Pepper says, empathetic and amused in equal measure. "You've got it _bad_."

.

Tony stops going to _Captain's_ and whatever Pepper says, it's not because he's running away. He's just mentally preparing himself for the onslaught of activity that filming _Iron Man_ entails. And the copious amounts of stick-to-your-ribs comfort food and high calorie desserts he's been refining are for the new cookbook he's been contemplating. And his increasingly frequent visits to his restaurant are because he needs to keep his cooks from getting complacent in his absence. And—

And—

And Tony is totally running away.

Whatever, he's an adult, he does what he wants.

.

Filming starts simultaneously too soon and not soon enough. Tony is immensely grateful for the reprieve is gives his brain; he barely has time to breath, let alone think about Steve, and by association, his embarrassing behavior. All Tony has time to focus on is _Iron Man_.

Production is a nightmare of scheduling, especially since the network wants four more episodes this season, but wants them to do it in the same time frame as the last. The guest stars—opponent or judge—are all well-to-do chefs or famous critics, busy with their own shows and restaurants, cookbook compilations and lines of cookware. It should be a disaster, but Pepper is in her true element when faced with such chaos. She manages Tony, too, handing him a steaming mug of French-press coffee in the morning and seeing him home from the studio each night.

"This is my job," she tells Tony gently, when he accuses her of working too much. "Your job is to cook."

And cook Tony does.

What most people don't know about _Iron Man_ is that, three days before the challenge, the chefs are given a five item list of different foods, one of which is going to be the main ingredient they have to use in their dishes. It allows them to prepare and gather the necessary tools and other foods they may have to utilize. Outside the sixty minutes Tony is given to prepare his courses, this three day crunch is when Tony shines the brightest.

The trick is versatility; the hard part is the ingenuity. Tony has to collect ingredients that will highlight and complement all five of the items on the list given to him, but be unique enough that the other chef won't make something similar. He has to create something unusual and delicious from a mish-mash of flavors and textures, and be daring enough to push the line without jumping off a cliff.

There's a reason why Tony is rarely beaten in these competitions.

Tony films seventeen episodes in two months—a rigorous and insane schedule, by anyone's standards—before he meets Steve. _Iron Man_ has kept Tony so exhausted that his anxiety about meeting Steve does not have time to fester and build. The inevitability of their meeting is always present in Tony's mind, layered beneath hundreds of potential recipes, that Tony figures he'll make that molehill into a mountain when Pepper tells him when Steve's challenge is.

This is, of course, why Pepper does not inform Tony of when Steve's challenge is or when Steve arrives in the city for filming.

Instead, Pepper brings Steve directly to the studio.

It is a true testament to how well Pepper knows Tony that she gives him no forewarning. He has zero time to whip his emotions into a frenzy—which he would have done as soon as he learned who the next guest chef was—and he's still riding the winning high of his previous cook-off—which means he's just confident enough not to turn tail and flee the moment he realizes the depth of Pepper's betrayal.

"Tony," Pepper says warmly as she approaches. Steve is a step behind her, unable to see the steel in her eyes that promises painful retribution if Tony acts out. Every muscle in Tony's body freezes. "I have a surprise for you!"

Every muscle except for those attached to Tony's eyebrows, which jump to meet his hairline.

"Steve came up a couple days early," Pepper continues. "There was a problem with his hotel. The reservations I made were cancelled, and—"

The rest of Pepper's words are a buzz in Tony's ears as he takes in the long line of Steve's body. Somehow, Steve is even more handsome in person than he was on television, and he looks edible in his worn leather jacket and indigo-dyed jeans. Tony cannot help the blatant up-down he gives the other man. Steve simply stares back, his eyes nearly colorless beneath the high stage lights, hooded and shamelessly _hungry._

And oh.

Oh.

Tony had not anticipated his visceral attraction to Steve to be mutual. Steve was an ex-Marine who owned a burger joint in D.C.—not that Tony had googled him or anything—and looked as American as a seasoned Tommy Hilfiger model. Tony had expected Steve to be a red-blooded stereotype of a typical white male, so Steve's not-heterosexuality is as unexpected as it is heady.

_This,_ Tony thinks dizzily, _I can do._

"—hoping that you'd be able to entertain him until I can get the mess with the hotel sorted out, if you're not too busy," Pepper says, a smirk on her lips as Tony blinks out of his stupor. Tony wonders how long she's been able to see through his ridiculousness. Longer than him, certainly, but Tony has always been better at hiding his emotions from himself than from others. Pepper probably knew this was going to happen the moment he mentioned how well Steve made sugar cookies with Martha on daytime tv.

"You're the one who makes my schedule," Tony quips. He finally manages to take his eyes off Steve but he remains hyper aware of the other man's presence, lingering heavily on the peripheral edge of his vision. "Do I have time to entertain?"

"You act like you listen to me," drawls Pepper, the tail end of her sentence cut off by the sudden blare of her sharp ringtone. She pulls it out of her purse and checks the caller ID. "I have to take this," she informs them. Then, with a conspiratorial curl of her lipsticked mouth, she tells Tony, "You have two days before the next challenge starts. Use your time wisely."

Pepper answers her phone and walks away brusquely, her designer heels clicking against the tile. As always, Tony is in awe of how perfectly her plans come together.

"Is she always so efficient?" Steve asks once her footsteps have faded. His smile is boyish and disarming and should, by all accounts, not suit him as well as it does. Tony lets himself respond with his own lazy smirk; several magazines have reported it as 'devastating', and experience has taught Tony its effectiveness. When Steve's eyes flicker down to Tony's mouth, Tony feels a frisson of triumph go down his spine.

"It isn't a coincidence that I was about to go to dinner," Tony responds, crossing his arms. Without Pepper as a buffer, a small bit of uncertainty begins to creep back into his veins. It's the same unease that often accompanies flirting with ridiculously attractive people, however, so Tony firmly ignores it. "Are you hungry?"

Steve's gaze moves slowly down Tony's throat and shoulders, as blatant as a touch, before it jumps back up. Already heavy and palpable, the tension between them doubles when their eyes meet again. Tony feels his knees go weak, the unreliable bastards.

"Starving," Steve says.

.

_The Pot_ is a small restaurant in the maze of Manhattan that serves a truly staggering variety of fondues. Thor had introduced Tony to the establishment a few years back. Thor's palate leans towards foods that are simple and filling and delicious, so whenever Thor has a recommendation, Tony mentally prepares himself for an extra hour (or five) on the treadmill. Tony is never able to resist their specialities beers, either, so he often leaves tipsier than he arrived.

The restaurant itself has a European-rustic-meets-gentleman's-club theme, which produces a rich and quiet atmosphere. The booths are deep and comfortable; the tables are darkly stained; the lighting is warm and soft; and Tony is wholly unprepared for how intimate it feels. Tony has only ever come to _The Pot_ with someone he was uninterested in romantically—Thor and Rhodey, specifically—or by himself, and he had forgotten that the booths were more like upholstered, three-walled cubbies that provided an insane amount of privacy. There isn't much leg space, either, and Tony's twice damned knees knock against Steve's beneath the table.

"Sorry," Steve apologizes, the full length of his calf pressed against Tony's. "Long legs."

"It must be a curse," Tony commiserates.

Neither of them move when the waitress comes, nor when they get their beers, nor when their food arrives. Steve shrugs out of his leather jacket between his first and second beer, and Tony is fairly certain that the required maneuvering does not necessitate that Steve hook his foot around Tony's heel, but all he does is raise an eyebrow in Steve's direction. Steve replies by pulling Tony's foot even closer.

Their meal is by far the most sexually-charged meal consisting of bread and cheese that Tony has ever experienced. Steve is constantly licking his lips and fingers, tongue darting across the full swell of his bottom lip and the width of his thumb. He watches Tony as he does it, his eyes dark beneath the short, flaxen wings of his lashes. Tony knows the blush on his cheeks is visible even in the dim light, but he refuses to be outdone, and dares to feed Steve by hand.

Steve accepts each bite and lets his mouth linger against Tony's skin like a kiss.

Yet despite the tension in the air and their unsubtle flirtations, Tony and Steve keep a steady stream of conversation. Steve tells him about some frankly bizarre customer orders while Tony talks about various experiences he's had with his cooking staff.

"There's absolutely no way that's true," Steve accuses between barks of laughter. His laugh is unconventional, high and nasal, but it suits him as well as his smile. "You have got to be making this up!"

"I really, really wish I was."

Eventually, their cheese-filled caquelon is replaced by a smaller one filled with chocolate and their pints of beer turn into glasses of red dessert wine. Steve's interest is sincere and heady, and the insecurities Tony has built up in his mind have vanished. Tony knows, with a curious and undeniable certainty, where their night is headed, but for the first time in a long time, he doesn't want to rush straight to bed. He wants to linger in his anticipation.

Steve seems to be in complete agreement. He takes his time with the sweet foods laid out in small bowls between them, pausing to speak between each bite. This is, for better or for worse, when their conversation becomes soft and personal.

"I watched your show when I was in high school, you know," Steve confesses. His elbows are on table and he leans forward just enough for the seams of his shirt to protest the breadth of his shoulders. Tony is very appreciative of the sight until Steve's words penetrate the light fog of lust and alcohol in his brain.

"Please tell me you're not talking about _Tony Time_ ," Tony says with growing horror, his long-stemmed fork frozen halfway between the caquelon and his plate.

"I am." Steve laughs at the sheer mortification in Tony's expression. "It wasn't that bad, Tony."

It _was_ that bad. _Tony Time_ had thirty-one total episodes, and each one of those episodes had been only slightly less devastating than a train wreck. Tony had been extremely popular as a host, building an excellent rapport with his small, live audiences, but the food Tony prepared had been pre-determined by the network, an uninspired hodge-podge of dishes that did little to showcase Tony's abilities. His personality was the show's saving grace and, all modesty aside, the only reason there had been a second season. It hadn't taken a lot of heckling from Pepper to cut the program and give Tony his second show, _Stark_.

"Why would you subject yourself to that?" Tony asks around a groan.

"You mean besides the fact that the host was incredibly easy on the eyes?" Steve teases, voice dropping. Tony very manfully stops the whine that rises in his throat by shoving a piece of pineapple in his mouth and swallowing it down.

"Besides that."

"It was in your sixth or seventh episode," Steve says. "You made grilled balsamic chicken, lemon-rosemary angel hair, and green beans with roasted red pepper. You had just started to grill the chicken when someone asked you how long it would take for them to cook as well as you did."

Steve's story makes Tony draw blanks. The shows were filmed almost fifteen years ago, when the network was still new and no one had any particular idea how to format a decent half-hour cooking show. Tony remembers very little about _Tony Time_ other than how much he hated cooking conservative meals for house spouses to recreate.

"You laughed and you looked—I think that's when I—" Steve clears his throat and looks directly at Tony, completely sincere and unembarrassed. "You said that good cooking was knowing _how_ to cook, but great cooking was knowing _why_ to cook. You said that it didn't matter if you went to culinary school for your entire life or had turned on the stove for the first time. All you needed was the why, and eventually the how would come."

"That's a pretty kitschy line," Tony jokes, but it brings no levity.

"Maybe," Steve says, softly, "but it stayed with me a long time. It gave me the courage to work for Erskine after I got out of the Marines, even when I knew that everyone else there had been the best in their class at culinary school and were determined to be the best outside it. Compared to them, I had no experience. I knew nothing. How was I supposed to become a chef when all I could do was the simple things my grandmother taught me? Kitchen after kitchen rejected me and I thought about giving up, but—"

Steve stops abruptly and takes a deep breath. Tony watches as Steve visibly relaxes, the tense lines in his shoulders and jaw going loose once more; it only occurs to Tony, once he sees this, how much Steve had wound himself up.

"I'm sorry," Steve murmurs. "I know it may be strange for you, but for years all I wanted was to thank you. Now I'm sitting across the table from you and we're—we're _fondue-ing_ , and this really isn't how I expected this would go."

"How did you imagine it?" Tony cannot help but ask, curious.

"Honestly, I thought you would shake my hand, tell me you were flattered, and that would be the end of it." Steve chuckles, as though he can't believe what he's saying, but it's the unfortunate truth. If Tony hadn't decided to climb into his car all those months ago, and drive four hours to try a stupid burger, that is exactly what would have happened. Tony appreciates his fans, of course, but he knows from experience that dipping his metaphorical spoon into that metaphorical pot is a not-so-metaphorical Bad Idea.

"I'm glad it didn't happen like that," Tony says in a rare moment of raw honesty, his reply stripped of its usual sarcasm. Tony hasn't connected with someone so swiftly, so easily, and so deeply in years. If weren't for their circumstances—and Pepper's meddling—this moment would have never existed.

Steve smiles widely at Tony's confession, his eyes crinkling into half moons. He reaches across the table and wraps his fingers around Tony's wrist; he runs his thumb against the delicate skin over Tony's veins, firm and unmistakable. Tony wonders if Steve can feel the thunder of his pulse.

"This is much better," Steve agrees.

Steve does not let go of Tony's hand as they finish their food and it messes with Tony's coordination. Melted chocolate dribbles across the table and down Tony's chin; Steve laughs softly as he cleans it off with his thumb, which Tony promptly captures, undulating the broad of his tongue against the sweetness of Steve's skin. Steve gasps, mouth slack with a sudden shock of pleasure and he turns a dark, flattering shade of pink. Tony's confidence swells and he lets Steve's thumb go with a loud, lewd pop.

"So," Tony purrs after their tab has been paid and their waitress has cleared the table. "Do you want to see if Pepper has cleared up that mess with the hotel?"

"No," Steve replies boldly. "I want you to take me to your place."

"Good," Tony declares, "because let's face it—there probably never was a hotel reservation in the first place, let alone a mess to sort out."


	2. Chapter 2

The cab ride back to Tony's is a quiet affair, though the expectation between Tony and Steve is as electrically suffused with inevitability as the atmosphere before a lightning strike. Tony very carefully does not touch Steve all the way from the restaurant to the penthouse. Steve is equally as hesitant; he holds the cab door for Tony, but keeps his hands folded primly in his lap throughout the entire journey. Tony is sure that Steve is as keenly aware of the distance between their bodies as he is, and knows that the moment they reconnect, they will be unable to separate.

Once inside Tony's spacious apartment, the door closed safely behind them, Steve clears his throat to reclaim Tony's attention. (Which is ridiculous, because Tony's attention has been dialed to eleven since Pepper brought Steve to the studio.) The twinkling city lights come through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind them, but the neat gold of Steve's hair and ultramarine of his eyes are still desaturated by the dim light, making him look as unreal as a dream. The darkness, however, does very little to gentle the tight, predatory line of Steve's shoulders or diminish the bright gleam in his eyes.

"I want to kiss you," Steve confesses, sincerely and softly. His gaze never wavers. "Then I want to blow you and finger you until you come. Then I want to fuck you."

The sudden onset of filth coming from Steve's mouth makes the hairs on the back of Tony's neck stand up. Steve is stunningly good-looking and an amazing chef; it is truly unfair that he possesses the ability to make Tony's toes curl with a couple of (frankly devastating) sentences.

"Oh god," Tony whimpers.

"Steve is fine," Steve says with a smirk, and that joke is _lame_ , but Steve toes out of his shoes and shrugs his leather jacket off in one continuous, sinuous motion that emphasizes the broadness of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. Any retort Tony may have had stills on his tongue.

"Okay?" Steve asks as he steps into Tony's space.

"Okay," Tony agrees.

The moment Steve's mouth meets Tony's is more surprising than it should be. The kiss itself is stupidly chaste—a dry, solid press of lips—and is their only point of contact, yet Tony's eyelids flutter shut at the sensation. It doesn't last for more than a few moments, but Steve lingers long enough to leave a permanent imprint of himself in Tony's memory. Tony cannot hide his sound of distress when Steve pulls away.

"Shhh," Steve soothes, his mouth still so close that Tony can feel him form the words. "I got you."

Then Steve reaches up to cradle Tony's skull with one hand while he fits the other to the small of Tony's back. Their second kiss is nothing like the first; Steve devours Tony's mouth, licking past Tony's lips and teeth, and stroking Tony's tongue with his own. Tony's knees go weak for the second time that night and his hands twitch uselessly against Steve's solid chest as Steve withdraws to bite at Tony's lower lip. Steve's teeth are sharp enough for the pain to spike past Tony's daze of arousal, but quick enough so it adds to the pleasure, rather detract from it.

Normally, Tony gives as much as he takes. He's as good at sex as he is at cooking, thank you very much, and he is a firm believer in reciprocation. With Steve, however, Tony can do little more than hang on. His brain is officially offline. He wouldn't be surprised if it were from oxygen deprivation, because who needs air when they're being kissed like this?

Steve continues to kiss and kiss and kiss Tony for an immeasurable amount of time: seconds, hours, eternities. The thrill never ebbs. Each hot slide of Steve's tongue and each stinging cut of his teeth works its way into Tony's blood. Tony is dizzy and lightheaded, still a little drunk from dinner, and leans more heavily on Steve than his own feet. Steve takes the weight easily, wedging one of his thick thighs between Tony's legs and wrapping his arm more firmly around Tony's waist as he crowds Tony against the foyer wall.

"You still taste like wine and chocolate," Steve murmurs against Tony's skin, lips rasping against Tony's stubble. "I bet you're sweet all over."

"Fuck," Tony hisses, pushing his hands up Steve's chest to sink his nails into the meat of Steve's shoulders. He can feel how full Steve's dick as he rolls their hips together. "Fuck—"

"That's the idea," Steve says, and Tony is going to tell him that this word play thing is neither witty nor cute, he _is_ , but Steve pulls on Tony's hair just hard enough that Tony has to tilt his head back so Steve can get to Tony's thundering pulse. Steve cheats, okay, because only a dirty cheater would scrape their teeth down the column of Tony's neck the way Steve does, hard enough to threaten.

Tony is unsure how they make it from the foyer to the bedroom. Later, he will wonder if Steve carried him that short distance, which is as ridiculous as it is hot. All Tony really knows is that one moment he's upright and the next moment he's looking up at the high, spackled ceiling, dazed from the unexpected change in orientation. The sudden onset of vertigo does not distract him from how Steve brackets Tony's hips with his solid thighs before unceremoniously removing his white t-shirt. The way Steve grabs the back of his shirt's collar and hauls the cotton fabric over his head makes Tony's mouth go dry. Steve then flings the shirt to the floor as though it offends him; with a body like Steve's, Tony is a little offended by the shirt himself.

"You're gorgeous," Tony whines as Steve leans over him, elbows braced on either side of Tony's head. "I am having a very difficult time deciding what part of you I want to touch first."

"I can help you with that," Steve says.

Tony has no time to process Steve's promise before Steve _slides_ down Tony's body and undoes Tony's jeans with more dexterity than Tony has ever had at this point in the game. Tony's hands jump up from the duvet to instinctively curl into Steve's hair, the strands fine and soft between Tony's fingers.

"Told you," Steve chuckles, smug. "Now, lift your hips."

Tony is helpless to do anything but obey, letting Steve tug his jeans halfway down his thighs. Steve doesn't bother with Tony's boxer-briefs immediately; instead, he presses his nose against Tony's inner thigh, inhaling deeply.

"I've always admired you," Steve whispers against Tony's skin, his palms hot over Tony's hips. His regard would have been sycophantic and discomforting on anyone else, but with Steve, it is just honest. "I never thought I'd get to have you like this. I had hoped, but—it seems silly, now."

The idea that Steve has thought about this—has wondered what it would be like to have Tony underneath him, just like Tony has wondered how it would be to have Steve above him—makes Tony's heart skip. Tony himself has been attracted to Steve since his damn cookie making guest appearance, and has been undeniably curious about Steve as a chef since trying his food. It should be weirder than it is, to be half in love with a stranger, but he certainly isn't alone in his foolishness.

"You have me," Tony says. He can feel Steve's answering smile against his thigh.

"Yeah," Steve breathes. "I got you."

Then Steve closes his mouth around the still clothed head of Tony's dick.

"Fuck!" Tony exclaims, his hips bucking up usually against Steve's heavy hands. Steve's mouth is hot even through Tony's boxer-briefs; the pressure of his tongue makes Tony's eyes roll back into his head. Tony writhes as Steve mouths the entire line of his dick, intermittently and carefully closing his teeth around Tony's girth, applying just enough muted pressure to make Tony mewl, until the fabric is damp with spit.

Tony is helpless to do much more than tighten his fingers in Steve's hair, unable to sit up fully, neck straining so he can watch. The relaxed delight on Steve's face is mesmerizing to witness; Tony can hardly believe how much Steve enjoys teasing him. Steve's genuine pleasure turns Tony on as much as the teasing itself.

Eventually, Steve catches Tony's unblinking stare. When he pulls back to grin, Steve looks as disheveled as Tony feels: pupils blown wide, cheeks stained red, mouth puffy and tender. The sight makes Tony's unbearably hard dick pulse almost painfully. The debauched lean of Steve's classical good looks should be illegal.

"I want you to come in my mouth," Steve says.

"Okay," Tony replies dumbly.

Careful of the elastic band, Steve pulls Tony's spit-soaked boxer-briefs over his throbbing cock and halfway down his thighs. He then swallows the entirety of Tony’s dick with well-practiced ease, opening his throat without thought. Reeling from the suddenness of the motion, Tony’s fingernails involuntarily dig into Steve’s scalp, and he moans, “Oh—what are—the fuck— _fuck_ —”

Tony feels Steve’s mouth twitch against his skin; Tony knows that if it were at all possible to smile with a mouth stuff full of cock, Steve would be beaming.

“Not—funny—” Tony gasps.

Tony does not last long. Already near the edge from Steve’s unexpected but oh-so-welcomed teasing, Tony comes no more than a minute later. Steve switches between steady, long swallows, undulating the flat of his tongue against the underside of Tony’s dick, and hard, toe-curling sucks, pulling back so Steve only has Tony’s cockhead between his lips. The difference in pressure and heat quickly unbalances Tony and sends him careening towards release. Tony’s only warning is a choked off cry, his fingers tightening in Steve’s fine hair. Steve simply catches all of Tony’s come on his tongue, licking the remnants from the corners of his mouth when he pulls away, as though it was the best thing he has eaten all night.

Tony takes that for the compliment it is.

“You look so good,” Steve murmurs as Tony tries to catch his breath, his chest heaving as though he had just spent the last ten minutes sprinting rather than lying on his back, receiving the best oral of his life.

“You’ve already—eaten me up,” Tony pants, lungs burning. Despite the fact that he can feel the thunder of his heart against his rib cage, his limbs have gone loose and his muscles are so relaxed that he risks turning into a Tony-shaped puddle. The traces of alcohol in his blood and Steve’s truly amazing foreplay/blowjob combo are a deadly mix. “Gonna stuff me too?”

And dear lord, these jokes are terrible, seriously, vaguely cannibalistic food puns are not in the least bit sexy, but Steve laughs regardless, short and bright.

Steve presses a kiss into the hollow of Tony’s pelvic bone before he removes Tony’s boxer-briefs completely, tossing them aside before he rises to his knees and goes for his fly. Tony props himself up on his elbows to watch Steve unbutton his jeans and push the sturdy denim down his ridiculously sharp hipbones. The thatch of hair on his belly and groin is a dark shade of gold, thick and untamed, spreading out to the soft insides of his thighs and framing Steve’s flushed dick perfectly.

“Okay,” Tony babbles as Steve jerks his own cock, a couple of hard, slow pulls that are as much for show as they are to take the edge off. “Okay, I want you in me. Now. Lube’s in the drawer, let’s do this.”

Tony is treated to the spectacular view of Steve’s round ass as Steve grabs the lube, his jeans pushed below the curve of muscle and fat, tight in the crease where his ass meets his thigh. Tony’s cock makes a valiant effort at getting up for round two, twitching hopefully as Steve rubs the lube against Tony’s hole, his touch firm but not forceful enough for his fingers to slip inside. Tony wiggles his hips to convey his impatience, but Steve continues to tease and tease until Tony is completely mad with it.

“Fuck!” Tony spits in frustration. His thighs are open obscenely wide and his hips are tilted so far forward that his pelvis is nearly off the bed. “You’re supposed to put those in me, Rogers!”

“Oh?” Steve teases. “Is that what I’m supposed to do?”

The stretch of two fingers pushing suddenly inside makes Tony hiss, surprising and so, so good. Tony has always loved the pain-pleasure of being stretched and the odd pressure of being full. His prostate is sensitive too; when Steve finds that sweet spot and _rubs_ , Tony’s entire body strains for more.

“You like that?” Steve asks, awed and breathless. He moves his free hand up Tony’s thigh to curl around Tony’s half-chub, stroking in time with the pressure increases on Tony’s prostate. “Fuck, you do. Can you come just from this?”

“Yes!” Tony whimpers, twisting against the sheets. Having his prostate milked is intense—it feels simultaneously too good and too much—but Tony has always loved it.

“Next time,” Steve promises eagerly as he adds a third finger. “Next time, I’ll finger you until you come—I won’t let you touch your cock, either, wanna see you desperate—”

“And I’m not, now?” Tony half-laughs, half-cries, hysterical. His cock is fully hard again and his brain is buzzing with arousal.

“Not like you will be.”

Tony wants to protest when Steve pulls his fingers out—it’s strange, to be suddenly empty when he had been so full—but Steve is merely reaching into the back pocket of his jeans to pull a condom out. Apparently, Steve had been hopeful for more, despite his confession at the restaurant.

“I bet you were a boy scout,” Tony teases.

“Always prepared,” Steve intones mock gravely, his smile a line of sin. Tony would laugh, if Steve didn’t decide to open the packet with his teeth.

“Oh my god,” Tony whimpers. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Only a little,” Steve replies as he pulls the condom on and pinches the tip for room. His dick is dark against his hands. He’s been so hard for so long that it has to hurt. “Can you take me like this?”

“Like what?”

“On your back,” Steve clarifies, running a hot palm down Tony’s side, patient and gentle and reassuring. “I want to see—I want to kiss you.”

“Oh,” Tony responds dumbly. His entire body pulses in anticipation, the idea of being kissed by Steve while Steve fucks him so unbearably wonderful that his entire brain temporarily flat lines.

“Or we can do it on—”

“No,” Tony interrupts. “No, it’s okay. I want to kiss you, too.”

Steve’s smile is blinding.

The tenderness of the moment melts seamlessly back into urgency as Steve pulls Tony’s legs around his waist and presses inside. Tony bites his lip at the initial burn and forces himself to breathe as Steve settles. It might have been easier to take Steve on his hands and knees, but like this Tony is able to watch Steve’s face go slack with pleasure.

“Tony,” Steve murmurs as Tony adjusts to the not inconsiderable girth of Steve’s cock. Steve’s thighs are trembling and there is sweat beading against his hairline. “Tony, you feel so—”

Having sex with Steve is unreal. He fucks Tony exactly the way Tony wants to be fucked, bending Tony in half as he thrusts relentlessly inside. Any breath Tony catches is immediately stolen by Steve’s mouth—not that Tony can complain, as he’s the one with his fingers in Steve’s hair, anchoring the other man in place so their mouths can remain in constant contact. The sloppy slide of their spit-slick lips and tongues is almost as good as the throbbing ache of Steve inside Tony.

This exchange lasts longer than Tony expects, though not by much. After several erratic thrusts, Steve comes with a grunt that sounds like it was punched out of him, his hips stuttering to a stop after he buries himself as deep as possible, fingers tightening in the hollows of Tony’s knees. His head is thrown as far back as Tony’s grip will allow and his teeth are bared like a beast’s, throat exposed and eyes tightly shut.

For a moment, Tony forgets about himself and marvels at how good Steve looks when he’s undone. It’s almost embarrassing how beautiful Tony thinks Steve is, even sex-stupid and flushed red with exertion.

Steve tries to pull out once his orgasm has completely passed, but Tony, close to the edge but not close enough, whines in distress and locks his ankles around Steve’s waist to keep him inside.

“Please,” Tony begs. “Don’t—I need—”

Steve is breathing heavily, his exhaustion clear in the slump of his shoulders and the trembling in his biceps, but he remains inside Tony as Tony desperately jerks himself with both hands. It feels so good, to squeeze his shaft with one hand while he twists his cockhead with the other, but it hurts, too; Tony rides this wave of goodhurtnotenough for an eternity, wanting to come but unable to, until Steve reaches up and flicks Tony’s nipple.

“Come for me,” Steve commands, pinching Tony’s nipple at the same time he circles his hips to go _deeper_. The bright spark of pain coupled with the increase of pressure on his prostate makes Tony cry out, quick and high, and he is helpless to do anything but obey. Come dribbles over his fingers as pleasure lights every nerve in his body on fire, his vision graying at the edges like static—

Tony still whimpers at the loss of Steve’s cock.

“Sorry,” Steve whispers, kissing the corner of Tony’s mouth placatingly. Tony turns his head so the small kiss turns into something deeper; there is no urgency in the warm slide of their lips, only satisfaction. Tony’s second orgasm has wrung out the last remnants of his energy and he is content to kiss Steve while he rubs his thighs together idly, enjoying the slick sensation of lube smeared across his asshole and taint. He wishes, briefly, that Steve could have spilled his load inside Tony, as irresponsible as it would have been, so Tony could enjoy the slow leak of it leaving his puffy, aching hole.

“You want me to grab a washcloth?” Steve asks quietly, after their kiss has ended and he’s left the bed to dispose of the condom and undressed completely. His exposed skin glows in the soft light. 

“I like being dirty,” Tony replies just as quietly.

“Okay,” Steve says, nodding as though he understands. Maybe he does.

After that it’s easy for Steve to crawl back into bed, to pull Tony under the mussed sheets, to entwine their bodies. Steve’s skin is warm beneath Tony’s questing palms and Steve curls one broad hand over Tony’s scratchy cheek. They exchange kisses instead of words, for no other reason than want, and between one shared breath and another, sleep takes them both.

.

Morning arrives in increments of awareness. Snatches of reality filter past the loosening hold of unconsciousness: the heat of sunlight against his bare back, the pleasant soreness of his body, the smell of freshly brewed coffee drifting in the air. Steve isn't in bed beside Tony, but if the noise coming from the kitchen is any indication, he has not gone far.

Warm and satisfied, Tony lies in bed for nearly a quarter of an hour after he's fully woken up, lazily twisting his feet in circles. Eventually, however, the promise of coffee and the clatter of dishes being used forces Tony to slide out from beneath the soft sheets. He grabs his black and bronze robe from where he had left it slung over a chair, and tightens the belt around his waist before stumbling blearily into the kitchen.

Steve is gorgeous, of course, in the pale morning light filtering through the tall windows. He's dressed in his jeans and the white t-shirt he had worn yesterday, both a little rumpled from spending the night on the floor, and his feet are bare and startlingly intimate against the dark shale tiles. The smile he gives Tony when Tony shuffles over to him is as warm and as welcoming as the bed Tony just left.

"Morning!" Steve greets, leaning over to press a kiss against the seam of Tony's mouth. It's innocent in comparison to the filthy kisses they shared the night before, but it still manages to go all the way down to Tony's fingertips and toes. "I hope you don't mind that I commandeered your kitchen. You were still pretty out of it when I woke up."

"Mi cocina es su cocina," Tony replies, melting into Steve's side.

"I made coffee first," Steve elaborates. He gestures with a spatula to the half empty carafe further down the counter. "I made it about thirty minutes ago. It should still be warm, if not a little strong. I would have poured you some but I don't know how you take it."

"Black, usually," Tony mumbles into Steve's sleeve, rubbing his still kiss-sensitive mouth against the slightly scratchy cotton. It makes his lips tingle.

"I'll get you a cup, then," Steve says softly. He tilts his head to give Tony another kiss, short and sweet, that lingers longer than it has any right to. It distracts Tony as much as the slice of skin that is revealed as Steve reaches to get Tony a coffee mug from the cabinet, and he has a more difficult time clambering onto one of the barstools than he cares to admit.

The coffee Steve pours is beginning to lose its heat and is stronger than Pepper usually makes it, but coffee is coffee is coffee. Tony makes a small, happy noise as he drains a third of his drink in one go.

"So why pancakes?" Tony asks once he's finished his first cup and Steve poured him a second with an oddly indulgent grin.

"They're my speciality," Steve replies. "I have to impress you somehow, don't I?"

"I am already thoroughly impressed," Tony admits, his eyes sweeping down the broad expanse of Steve's back, down to his narrow waist. Steve's ears and the nape of his turn pink at the compliment. "By all of you, really."

After Steve flips the last blueberry pancake off the griddle, he slides a couple of stacked plates and a dish of brown sugar butter across the island. He then grabs his own coffee mug and walks around to sit next to Tony, elbows bumping as he gets comfortable on the stool. Tony playfully elbows him back.

The pancakes piled on Tony's plate are golden brown and perfectly fluffy, stuffed with blueberries and topped with a sweet, oaty crumble. Tony spreads the brown sugar butter over the top and rolls the pancakes so he can eat them with his fingers. Tony makes an appreciative noise when he takes his first bite; Steve had added some lemon zest to the batter, which balances out the heaviness of the crumble and complements the blueberries.

"How are you even real?" Tony asks as he shoves a few more bites into his mouth. "This is ridiculously good."

"My grandmother taught me how to cook," Steve says with a smile. "I was small as a kid and got sick easily, so I spent a lot of my time at her house while my mom was at work. On Sundays, before we went to church, this is what she would make. My official job was to add the blueberries."

"My compliments to your grandmother, then."

"She would have appreciated that."

They eat the rest of their meal in comfortable silence that is broken only once, when Steve asks if Tony would like him to make another pot of coffee.

"You've already seduced me, Rogers," Tony says, his smile falling closer to soppy than lecherous as Steve slides off his barstool. "You're going to get lucky again whether or not you sway my affections with copious amounts of caffeine."

"Mmm," Steve hums, stepping behind Tony and pressing his warm chest against Tony' back. One of his big, broad palms slips beneath the silken fold of Tony's robe and scratches the sensitive skin of Tony's inner thigh, a trail of sparks following the scrape of his blunt nails.

"Oh god," Tony gasps.

"Maybe I don't need to seduce you," Steve whispers directly into Tony's ear, breath hot and damp against the cartilage. "But I still want to."

After the beans have been ground and steeped in boiling water, they finish the second carafe more quickly than the first. Tony polishes off the last pancake even though he's full to the point of bursting; he has a weakness for sweet foods that he rarely indulges in, but his time with Steve is already decadent, so he eats his breakfast and refuses to feel guilty. Steve licks the corner of Tony's mouth when Tony finishes and sits back with a sigh.

"Blueberry juice," Steve offers as an explanation.

They gather up the dishes and wash everything by hand. Tony usually just rinses them and sticks them in the dishwasher—cleaning dishes and cookware has always been the most unpleasant and inevitable part of cooking—but Steve shakes his head when Tony suggests it.

"It's a waste of water and energy to run the dishwasher with such big items," he says, gesturing to the griddle and the mixing bowl. Then, teasingly, "I'll wash if you dry."

It takes ten minutes to finish, but Tony, contrary as always, spends more time letting his hands wander over Steve than actually drying dishes.

"So impatient," Steve laughs as the soapy, dirty water spirals down the drain. His words trail into a moan as Tony stands on tiptoe and pulls the collar of Steve's t-shirt down to bite at the meat of his shoulder. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Well," Tony replies, just as breathlessly, "all this scrubbing has given me an idea. Would you like to see my shower?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The blueberry pancakes Steve makes are a speciality pancake from Over Easy, a restaurant in Colorado Springs. I go there every time I visit my parents. IF YOU ARE EVER IN COLORADO SPRINGS, AND DON'T KNOW WHERE TO GO FOR BREAKFAST, PLEASE DO YOURSELF AN IMMENSE FAVOR AND MOZY ON OVER. Everything on the menu is spectacular, and if you go during happy hour, you can drink as many $3 mimosas as you want. (And I always want.)


	3. Chapter 3

Tony's shower is almost as indulgent as his kitchen. It is a monstrosity built of glass and stone, and large enough to fit the both of them comfortably, whether they choose to stand or sit. There are multiple fixtures—a wide shower head, a slide bar hand shower, and three body sprayers—and a touch screen that controls heat and pressure. Tony reaches inside the shower stall and selects one of his presets. The wide shower head immediately starts.

"I like hot showers," Tony says as he steps back out of the stall. "Is that okay, or—"

Steve has already taken off his shirt and stepped out of his jeans when he reaches for Tony. His huge, greedy hands peel Tony's robe from his body before Tony can finish his sentence; the expensive fabric falls to the floor and pools at their feet, and the tangle of it trips them as they tip into the stall. Steve guides Tony to the far wall and pins Tony's shoulders to the stone, the cold a shocking contrast to the warm water cascading from above.

Completely naked for the second time in less than ten hours, Steve stands an arm's length away, eyes slipping over inch of Tony's exposed body. Tony cannot fault him; he cannot look away from Steve either. Steve's hair is burnished by the water, and that darkness only serves to make Steve's blue eyes bluer and his red mouth redder. Tony's half-chub hardens into a full erection as Steve takes one long, predatory step into his space and crowds against Tony.

"I wanna taste you," Steve says, a desperate snarl that crawls out of the deep cavern of his chest. "I want to eat you."

Steve's words are dreamlike in the steam building inside the stall, softened by the translucent fog that rises up from heated tile floor. There is no denying the reality of Steve's intentions, however; one hand slides down to Tony's hip, reaches around, and dips into the crevice between Tony's asscheeks. Tony's entire body jolts as though he's been electrocuted when Steve rubs his finger, hard, against Tony's puffy, sensitive hole.

" _Fuck,_ " Tony curses, his calves tightening as his body instinctively pushes forward and upward onto the balls of his feet. Steve's touch retreats to the curve of his ass, holding him in place as their cocks meet. A hiss of pleasure, barely audible over the fall of water, escapes into the scant air between them. So wrapped up in the sensation of their bodies pressed together, Tony does not know if the noise came from Steve, or himself.

Despite the intensity of Steve's tease, they do not immediately rut against one another. Their exchange is not as frenetically urgent as the previous night. Whether this is because of the building atmosphere inside the stall, or because they do not have to wonder if their tremulous time together is going to be the only time, Tony does not know, nor does he care. Instead, he trades sloppy, open-mouth kisses until his lips are raw from Steve's day-old, golden stubble and rocks his body against Steve's idly. The water spilling down their torsos creates the illusion that their movements are slippery, while actually amplifying the drag of friction as their hips roll together. It feels unbelievable.

Steve does not entirely fulfill the promise he made the evening before—when he laid Tony down, opened him with his fingers, and promised that he would make Tony come by just milking him—but he does make Tony desperate when he turns Tony around, nudges Tony's legs apart with his foot, and kneels. Then Steve spreads Tony wide and begins to feast.

Even prepared for what was to come, and with his forearms braced against the wall, Tony still feels unmoored at the first touch of Steve's mouth.

The drag of Steve's tongue over Tony's hole is as maddening as it is arousing. Tony is still sore from the night before—it's been a long time since he's been penetrated by something as thick as Steve's dick—but his body craves fullness, and Steve never goes further than the short, aching spear of his tongue allows. By the time Steve stands up, Tony's entire body is trembling with the stress from walking the difficult line between immense pleasure and the inescapable sting of pain.

"Christ," Steve groans as he buries his face into the wet curve of Tony's neck. The dampness of the spit smeared across Steve's mouth is a slick contrast to the heated water. "Do you even know how you look—?"

Steve's dick feels even more impressive when Tony is unstretched, his cockhead wide and hot as Steve pulls Tony's asscheeks apart and presses against Tony's hole. They both know he is too tight and raw to take Steve inside again—especially without copious amounts of lube—but it satisfies a deep, visceral need inside both of them when they play at it. Steve pushes just hard enough for Tony's hole to feel the threat, but he does not push hard enough to push inside.

"Please," Tony sobs, relaxing as much as he can. A part of him _wants_ Steve to cross that final line, even though he knows how sharp the following hurt would be. All he can focus on is how his frustration would be driven out and replaced with clean relief. "Please, I can't—"

"Goddamn," Steve swears, pulling away. A high whine of protest escapes from Tony's mouth; Steve runs a hand down his side and soothes, "Shhh, baby, I'm here, I just want you to put your legs together. That's it, keep it tight."

Tony obeys and presses his knees together as Steve grabs the conditioner off the stainless steel caddy. He squirts a handful into his palm, slicks up his dick, and then guides himself back between Tony's legs. For one delirious moment, Tony thinks that Steve is going to do more than tease him—that he understands Tony's masochism and is willing to feed that darkness—but Steve directs his cock lower and slips between Tony's thighs. Tony inhales sharply as Steve's shaft presses against the entire length of his perineum and Steve's cockhead nudges against the back of his sac.

"I wanna fuck you again," Steve growls, his tenor deepening into something barely recognizable. His fingers have found holds in the divots of Tony's hipbones—where Tony can feel the bruises extravasating beneath his skin—and it allows him to thrust, hard, back into the space between Tony's thighs. Already precariously balanced, Tony loses his footing on the tile. His chest and face bump against the wall. He would have fallen, but Steve's strength keeps him anchored. Tony keens in pleasure at the barbaric hold.

"I want you," Tony babbles. He reaches behind him to fist a hand in Steve's hair. The sodden strands are too short to provide a good handful. "Please, I need you to—"

Tony slips further. An instant later, Steve has one arm wrapped across Tony's chest to brace Tony's smaller body against his torso, and Tony's spine curves like a bow to accommodate this new position. Steve's mouth is open and slick against the knobby vertebra at the bottom of Tony's neck; the planes of his teeth are hard and blunt against Tony's skin; and his heavy, exerted breathing rattles out of his ribcage as he fucks up into the tight space between Tony's thighs.

The minutes that follow are hazy. All of Steve's tenderness and sweetness have been stripped away by want. He takes and takes and takes, and uses Tony's body with animalistic mindlessness, a wonderful brutality that is softened only by the damp heat of the shower. Combined with the electrical thrum beneath his skin, Tony's head feels dizzy and light, as though would float away if not for Steve's grounding presence.

Steve comes before Tony. Every muscle in his body seizes and he grunts, a primal noise that against Tony's skin. Tony gasps in surprise; he can feel the heavy pulse of Steve's dick between his quivering thighs, feel the mess of Steve's release as it pools briefly behind Tony's balls. before being washed away by the running water.

"Tony," Steve murmurs reverently, rubbing his nose against Tony's shoulder. "Tony."

The muscles and tendons in Tony's legs sigh as he moves his knees into a more natural position. There is a soreness in his joints that he had not noticed building as Steve fucked his thighs; only now that the tension is released does he realize the discomfort, and he hisses in relief as it dissipates.

"You're trembling," Steve says softly. He still supports a majority of Tony's weight, which Tony finds absolutely unreal. Steve is ridiculously strong—anyone else's arms would have given out after several minutes and an orgasm. Tony himself is a wreck. Each breath that his desperate lungs draw feels inconsequential, filled with more steam than oxygen. "Do you even know what you do to me?"

Steve moves his hand from Tony's hip and curls his fist around Tony's cock. Tony has been on edge for so long that all he needs is several rough jerks before his balls tighten and he's spent. His vision blurs—replaced, momentarily, by the static gray of unconsciousness—and his tired legs shudder, and give out. The only reason Tony does not fall is because Steve takes the rest of his weight with ease.

"That," Steve murmurs against Tony's temple as Tony trembles in his arms, oversensitive and overcome. "That's what you do to me."

.

In direct contrast to the first half of their shower together, the second half is as soft and as slow as a daydream. It has been a long time since Tony has let anyone past his normal defenses—years, actually, as the last person he dated seriously was before _Iron Man_ began—and it should terrify him to allow Steve so close so quickly. Yet there is no fear hidden within him, only a warm contentment which replaces the heat of Tony's faded arousal; it is less sharp than the latter, but no less suffusive.

Languid and tame, Tony submits to Steve's gentle care without fuss. Steve massages shampoo into Tony's thick hair, blunt fingernails scraping deliciously against his scalp and neck; he uses his broad palms instead of the bath sponge to wash Tony's body; and when they step out of the shower, he wraps Tony in one of the fluffy white towels from the bath tower and uses another to dry Tony's hair. Tony's hair has always been an unruly mess without any product—it has always been on the loose side of curly, a thick wave that he inherited from both his Italian father and Guatemalan mother—and it sticks up odd angles when Steve is finished.

"I look like a porcupine," Tony mutters as he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. He runs a hand through the mess and hopes that he doesn't look as ridiculous as he thinks he does.

"An adorable porcupine," Steve corrects with a stupidly fond smile, pressing a kiss to Tony's temple.

Eventually, Steve and Tony make their way out of the bathroom and return to Tony's bedroom. There is a small gray travel bag with leather straps leaning against the wall that Tony had not noticed earlier when he crawled out of bed, and he doesn't remember Steve having more than his leather jacket when he arrived at the studio with Pepper.

"It was on the kitchen counter this morning when I started making breakfast," Steve explains as he unzips the bag and pulls out clean clothes, all folded military style: a pair of black briefs, a pair of ankle socks, a charcoal gray t-shirt, and straight-legged jeans. "I thought I left it in Pepper's car."

"I told you," Tony says. He grabs a pair of sweatpants and an old Black Sabbath graphic tee out of drawer. "Pepper knows all. It was probably here before we were, we just didn't notice."

Steve's ears turn pink in embarrassment. Whether it is because Pepper had known how easy they would be for each other, or because she knows exactly what they hd been up to last night, Tony does not know. Tony himself is far too used to Pepper managing all the details of his life to feel any discomfort. Honestly, Tony would probably have been more surprised if Steve's bag _had not_ been in his apartment.

"You'll get used to it," Tony tells Steve with a shrug.

"Right." Steve clears his throat and glances up at Tony from beneath his short lashes. It should be more awkward than devastating, but like most things Steve does, the simple action makes Tony's breath catch. "Right, I'll have to do that, then."

And with that, Steve lets the towel clinging to his narrow waist fall to the floor.

Despite the fact that his movements are perfunctory rather than predatory, watching Steve get dressed is almost as captivating as watching him undress. Tony cannot peel his gaze from the other man as he steps into his briefs, buttons his jeans—the waist riding low enough on his hips for Tony to see the elastic band of his underwear—and pulls the shirt over his head. It is more fitted than the white one he wore the day before, and the softened cotton stretches obscenely over his pectorals. It is only when Steve starts talking again does Tony realize that he hasn't blinked the entire time.

"What was that?" Tony says too quickly, his syllables blurring together so it comes out as, "Wahwazat?"

"I asked what you wanted to do today," Steve repeats, unfazed by Tony's blatant ogling and unintelligible speech. "The competition officially starts tomorrow at one, so we won't have time to do anything until that's over."

"Oh, yeah," Tony says, blinking at the reminder. A numbing shock swells beneath his breastbone—how has in forgotten, _in less than a day_ , that Steve is his next opponent on _Iron Man_?—but Tony shoves it back down before it can overwhelm him. If there is one thing Tony is better at than cooking, it is denial.

"We could do the tourist thing," Tony suggests.

"I grew up in Red Hook," Steve says in way of reply, which explains the slightly odd way he pronounced coffee earlier that morning. "And I've already seen the new exhibit at MoMA."

"How about a walk?" Tony asks as an idea strikes him. "We can work up an appetite and split a sandwich. Then we can go to the market and get some supplies for dinner. It's my turn, since you made breakfast."

"That sounds fantastic," says Steve.

.

It is late morning when they venture into the real world. Steve shrugs his leather jacket on while Tony grabs his wallet and keys, then dons a light fleece jacket, sunglasses, and a baseball cap. Steve laughs softly at the ensemble.

"What?" Tony asks as they take the elevator down to the bottom floor.

"You," Steve replies, his fingers curling underneath Tony's bearded chin, the pad of his thumb dragging against the swell of Tony's bottom lip in a brief but bright moment of intimacy. "Your disguise isn't as foolproof as you seem to think it is."

"Says who?"

"Me," says Steve with a smile. "Sam too—he's one of my business partners. He helps wait tables during the week since he's not allowed in the kitchens anymore. He knew who you were the moment you stepped into the restaurant."

"Or maybe he's had a secret crush on me since high school too," Tony teases.

"Anyone with any sense would," Steve responds mock-seriously. The elevator dings and they step out into the empty lobby of Tony's apartment building. "But I think it had more to do with your trademark facial hair. You were very obvious, even from the kitchen doors."

As they step outside, Tony thinks back to the first time he visited _Captain's_. He had taken one of the smaller tables against the rough brick walls, and his back had been to the front of the restaurant; the huge, street-facing windows let in a lot of sunlight, so he had turned away from the glare and let the early summer heat seeps into his shoulders. He hadn't noticed it at the time, but he had been sitting directly in front of the stainless steel swing doors that lead to the kitchens.

"When Sam came back and announced you were there, I thought he being a smart ass again," Steve continues, his tone wry, as though he still cannot believe it. "Everyone but me crowded at the door to watch you take your first bite." Steve chuckles. "They were practically climbing on top of each other to get a good view."

"Why didn't you?" Tony asks, genuinely curious.

"I just couldn't." Steve shakes his head. "I kept wondering what I would do if you didn't like it—then I wondered what I would do if you thought it was _okay_ , something not worth repeating. Erskine taught me a lot before he passed, but all I could think of was what he _hadn't_ taught me. My friend, Bucky, smacked me upside the head and told me I was being an idiot—"

"You were," Tony interjects, an unexpected sting prompting him. "I wouldn't make an eight hour round trip for just any burger."

And it is only as Tony says this aloud that the absolute enormity of his ridiculousness occurs to him, despite that he had made the trip to D.C. for months without thought. It had not seemed like such a huge deal at the time, but now that this epiphany has dawned, Tony realizes how obvious this must have been—not only to Pepper, who knows Tony better than Tony knows himself, but to Steve's friends as well.

Fortunately, this revelation is not nearly as mortifying as it would have been several days ago, now that he and Steve and have been naked together.

Twice.

"I'm glad you did it," Steve tells him, low and soft, leaning into Tony's space. "It made it easier to ask Sharon to reach out to Pepper, to see if I could get a spot on _Iron Man_ even though I had already turned the offer down. You were—more approachable, after I had seen you get fried egg on your goatee."

Their conversation flows and ebbs naturally; Tony cannot remember the last time he spoke so easily to someone who wasn't already a good friend or long-time acquaintance. There is no strangeness in the miscellaneous breadth of their topics, no awkwardness when those topics have run their course, and no uncomfortableness in the silences that separate one topic from the next. Even Tony—who has never grown out of the habit of blathering when faced with conversational lulls—does not feel the urge to fill the calm air between them with empty sentences. He is content to stop and look at the burnished foliage around him.

Central Park is a wonder in autumn. The deciduous trees are saffron and citrine against the backdrop of an endless azure sky, marred only by the tops of neutral skyscrapers and the thin tendrils of cirrus clouds. Dead, desiccated leaves litter the pathway and crackle beneath Tony's sneakers and Steve's boots. Steve slips his hand into Tony's within the first ten minutes of their outing despite the brisk air, and his palm is warm enough to keep Tony's finger from becoming icicles.

Hand-in-hand, Tony and Steve spend several hours wandering. Both of them are familiar with the various routes and, other than intentionally avoiding the heavily trafficked areas, they have no real destination. A majority of their time is spent in the Ramble, a densely wooded space created to mimic a more natural landscape. The pathway is narrow and winding. Mostly they are alone, but occasionally, they have to share it with other people: gaggles of tourists looking at the scenery through their camera lenses, joggers in brightly colored lycra, and the odd birdwatcher or two.

"Bucky and I used to cut class and take the A up here," Steve tells Tony as a clique of disinterested teenagers shuffles past. "He would steal a pack of his mom's cigarettes and chain smoke them until he was sick, but he never learned his lesson." Steve laughs and shakes his head at the memory. "God, we were such idiots."

"You skipped class?" Tony asks as one of the teenagers gives him the hairy eyeball, as though saying the 's' word will magically summon a truancy officer from the bushes. "I'm having a hard time believing you led a life of adolescent delinquency."

"Honestly, I would have gotten into _more_ trouble if Bucky hadn't been around," admits Steve with a _c'est la vie_ shrug. "I was kind of a scrappy kid."

The sun has fallen from its zenith by the time they leave the park, bright and white and distant. Small pangs of hunger are beginning to tighten in Tony's stomach as well, so Tony leads Steve to nearby deli he is familiar with. Steve trusts Tony to order, and they split the frankly enormous hot sub while sitting at a tiny round table on the outdoor patio. A few other patrons stare at Tony for a beat too long, but nobody does more. Celebrity sighting are common in the city, after all, and everyone is either too busy or too jaded to do more than look.

"How do you find places like this?" Steve asks as he takes a huge bite out of his half. The sub is put together like a classic Philly cheesesteak, but it has thinly sliced layers of turkey instead of beef. Some of the sautéed peppers, onions, and jalapeños fall from the opposite end of Steve's sub onto the red-and-white checked deli paper.

"It's Manhattan," Tony replies before taking his own first bite. The French bread is toasted, the hard crust giving way to the soft crumb, with the right amount of mayonnaise and melted swiss cheese. "I could eat at a different place for every meal for a year. Half of my diet would be pizza, but I could do it."

"D.C. isn't as diverse. Right now it's mostly chains." Steve sighs wistfully. "The market has been growing, though. Sam and Sharon have been pestering me to open a second restaurant since _Captain's_ has been doing so well, but if I'm honest, I don't know if I would be able to manage two. I'm busy enough with one. I mean, Bucky takes care of the place when I'm gone, but…"

"Leaving your restaurant in the care of someone else can be hard, too." Tony pops a slice of jalapeño that has fallen out of his sub into his mouth. "When I opened my restaurant, the only time I left was to film episodes for my shows. Between _Stark_ , _Iron Man_ , and _Mach 7_ , I was spread pretty thin." Tony snorts. "Pepper ultimately made the executive decision to hand the place over to my sous-chef, Rhodey. Still, it took me _years_ to get comfortable with the idea."

"Can't you go back?" Steve asks. "Sharon said that filming _Iron Man_ was difficult, but _Stark_ went on hiatus a couple of years ago."

"I visit every once in awhile to keep people on their toes, but _Mach 7_ is Rhodey's, now," Tony says. "Pepper keeps telling me that I have enough room in my schedule to open another place, but…" Tony makes an ambiguous hand gesture. "My next restaurant will be my last restaurant. I need a place that will always be mine."

The truth is that Tony has been thinking about a second restaurant for some time. He has one more season of _Iron Man_ contracted with the network, and while he loves the flash and bang, the competition and the complication, Tony is ready to let someone take up his mantle. He misses being able to walk into a professional kitchen without being followed by a camera crew; he misses being able to experiment without having the final product scored by a panel of judges; he misses the satisfaction he gets at one in the morning when he and the last busboy leave; and he even misses the stress of a full house during dinner rush. He wants to make something less ostentatious and urbane than _Mach 7_ —which Pepper calls his vanity project to this day. He wants a place where he could make a plate of pasta and not be dressed down by every critic in the tri-state area. And when he misses television, he'll film a few episodes of _Stark_ in the way he does now.

"I get that," Steve agrees, knocking his knee gently against Tony's beneath their table. " _Captain's_ was a joint effort—me and Bucky and Sam and Sharon—and I am eternally grateful for everything they've done to support me. They've been my family since I left the Marines." Steve pauses and stares into middle distance, seeing a reality that isn't there, at least not yet. "I know I'm not ready to leave the restaurant, but sometimes I think about the future and… I know it's only a matter of time before I am."

The conversation ends there with Steve's confession, but the silence that ensues is an understanding one. Letting go is always difficult—Tony knows that from experience—and starting from scratch is absolutely terrifying. Yet, as Tony knows on a visceral level, the fear of the unknown can only suppress an appetite for newness for so long before it must be satiated.

And as Steve stated, after that, it is only a matter of time.


	4. Chapter 4

Once Tony and Steve have finished their lunch, Tony directs them to a small, nearby grocery to pick up the vegetables he will need to assemble dinner. There isn't much he has to buy; Pepper ensures that his kitchen is well stocked at all times, in case a flash of inspiration occurs at three in the morning during one of his insomniac bouts. The produce Tony purchases only fills a couple of plastic bags. Steve insists on carrying them both, looping the handles over one forearm and wrapping his other arm around Tony's waist. Tony curls shamelessly into the warm pocket of space Steve has created for him.

"So what are you making?" Steve asks as they make the relatively short trek back to Tony's penthouse.

" _Caldo de res_ ," Tony replies. "It's a beef broth soup."

"I don't think I've had that before," Steve says. "It sounds fantastic."

It's half past two when they return. Tony toes out of his sneakers, unzips his fleece, and removes his baseball cap, scrubbing a hand through the flattened strands. He doesn't expect it when Steve's hands replace his a moment later; Steve runs his fingers over Tony's scalp and stop at the nape of his neck, pulling Tony gently, yet unceasingly, into his orbit. Steve smiles at him and presses a dry quick kiss on the tip of Tony's nose, and then against Tony's mouth.

"Sorry," Steve murmurs unapologetically as his hands slip down Tony's neck and over Tony's shoulders. "I couldn't resist."

After they put the groceries in the crisper, they migrate to the living room and turn the television on. Tony hands Steve the remote, telling him to watch whatever he wants; when Steve chooses a channel that is having an Indiana Jones marathon, Tony mentally adds another bullet point to his ever-growing list of why Steve Rogers is the perfect man. Together, they watch the commercial-laden second half of _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ and the first part of _The Temple of Doom_ before Tony peels himself from Steve's side to go prepare dinner, as a medium-sized pot of caldo can take a couple of hours to finish.

"Do you want help?" Steve asks as Tony takes a variety of vegetables and a bone-in beef chuck out of the refrigerator.

"You made breakfast, I'll make dinner," Tony says. "Relax. Drink a beer. Watch blatantly racist eighties movies."

Despite his attempts to banish Steve back to the living room, Steve remains seated on a barstool. He does grab a beer—a speciality IPA from a local brewer Tony knows—and leaves the television on as background noise, but his attention is fixed on Tony as Tony fills a medium sized copper soup pot with water. As Tony waits for it to boil, he lightly sears the bone-in-beef chuck, then slices and dices his vegetables like the pro he is. Tony may or may not be showing off some tricks he's learned over the years.

"I'm having flashbacks to when I was a teenager." Steve's voice is rougher and deeper than normal, his chin resting in his wide palm as he leans forward, engrossed by the sight of Tony cooking. "Back when _Tony Time_ aired, I used to imagine that I was one of your audience members. I would say something witty to capture your attention, and you would be so charmed that I would be the only one you talked to."

"And what would you say?" asks Tony, curious.

"The show was cancelled before I could figure that part out." Steve's smile is crooked, equal parts amused and self-aware. "I've never been good at flirting."

"Oh?" Tony arches an eyebrow as he adds a bouillon cube and the beef to the boiling pot, then sets a timer for thirty minutes. "I think you've been doing an excellent job."

"That's only because you make it easy," Steve honestly replies.

Tony meets Steve's hooded eyes, the brilliant blue of his irises darkened by shadow. Lust coils achingly low in Tony's abdomen while embarrassed unease rises in his chest; Steve's handsomeness and bluntness are a deadly combination, and Tony is sure that he's never met someone who balanced the two so well. Tony has to look away after a moment, overwhelmed, using the uncut gourd in his hands as an excuse to hide from Steve's gaze.

"Is this everything you imagined, then?" Tony aims for unaffected and fails miserably, his voice softer and raspier than it had been a moment ago.

"This is better," says Steve.

As the water boils, the setting autumn sun fills Tony's penthouse with warm light and washes everything it touches in golden hues, the shadows elongating along the walls and floor. Tony has to turn on the kitchen lights before he adds a cornucopia of vegetables to the half-finished caldo: skinned tomatoes and unpeeled potatoes, calabasa, cabbage leaves, and quartered corn on the cob, diced carrots and chayotes and jalapeños, and several cloves of garlic, some cracked black pepper, and a bundle of cilantro.

The smell of the soup as it cooks down reminds Tony of his mother. María had been an excellent chef, but the Stark family did not cook for restaurants—they owned them. And while Tony had been feed from birth by an uncountable number of four- and five-star establishments all along the eastern seaboard, it was the meals prepared by María that Tony remembers most. Very few of María's recipes had been written down before the car accident; caldo is one of a handful that Tony can make from memory, and it makes him think of when María had first taught him to prepare it, when he was still too young to cut the vegetables up by himself and had to stand on a step stool to stir the pot.

Tony bites the inside of his cheek as he pulls a rice cooker out a cabinet. It has been years since he last made caldo, and he is unprepared for the visceral reaction the familiar smells cause. His parents may have passed away two decades ago, but he still misses them fiercely.

By the time the caldo is finished, it is dark outside, the lights of the city twinkling like stars on a low horizon. Tony removes the bundle of cilantro and tosses it into the garbage; then he removes the shank of beef, and shreds the tender meat with ease born of practice. (Like most chefs, Tony went through a grilling phase. He tries to convince himself that it wasn't as bad as Thor's barbecue phase.) Next, he ladles broth and vegetables into two wide bowls half-filled with rice. Finally, he distributes the shredded beef and presents one of the bowls to Steve.

"Bon appétit," Tony says, raising his own beer in an informal toast. Steve clinks his second bottle against Tony's before digging in with a gusto that is more surprising than it should be. After all, there's nothing a chef loves more than good food.

"This is fantastic," Steve compliments after several large bites. Tony cannot help but preen under Steve's praise; he may be a household name after his illustrious cooking career, but he still loves flattery.

Then, as if Steve _knows_ that Tony prepared a family recipe for him, Steve says, "Thank you for sharing this with me."

"It's been awhile since I had someone to share it with," Tony responds, smiling dopily. "I should be thanking you."

They don't speak much as they delve back into their meal. The silence, however, is not uncomfortable. Steve turns partially in his seat to press a blunt kneecap into Tony's thigh and randomly runs his knuckles down Tony's side. Tony cannot help but lean into to the easily given touches. When Steve goes to refill his and Tony's empty bowls, the kiss he gives Tony warms every corner of Tony's body.

When they are both done, there are leftovers despite the fact that Tony had halved the original recipe. He dumps said leftovers into a medium-sized Pyrex container—caldo reheats well, and it will be a good to have when the crunch of filming leaves him little time to prepare food for himself—as Steve rinses out their bowls and the soup pot. Tony had cleaned his knives and cutting boards while the soup and rice finished, so there is not much to clean. This time, Steve does not argue as Tony stacks everything else in the sink to worry about later.

Full of good food and with bottles of beer in hand, Tony and Steve move back to the plush, living room couch and resume their Indiana Jones marathon. Tony is more focused on the way Steve slings his arm around the back of Tony's couch, inviting Tony into his space without pretense, than the final half hour of _The Last Crusade_ , and he falls into Steve with a sigh. Their touches remain light and aimless throughout the movie's conclusion and a plethora of senseless commercial breaks, but Tony is not surprised when Steve turns to him and kisses him, and ignites the smolder of his arousal.

It's been a long time since Tony has made out on a couch—not since he was nineteen and working underneath his mentor, Yinsen—and he revels in the way Steve pushes him down into the cushions, his knees on either side of Tony's thighs. The heavy weight of his body is reassuring. Tony clutches Steve's shirt, fingers desperately seeking purchase, and ruts uselessly upwards, seeking friction where there is none. Steve cradles Tony's skull between his palms and dominates the pace of their kiss, stroking Tony's tongue with his own in a slow and sensuous slide. Tony's jaw hurts wonderfully when Steve finally relents.

"I never want to stop kissing you," Steve murmurs wistfully as his lips slide from Tony's. 

Tony's eyes open reluctantly; he had been unaware that he closed them. "Then why did you?" he slurs.

"Because I want to know if I could." Steve's gaze, which had been entirely focused on Tony's damp mouth, shift upwards to meet Tony's. "Never stop, I mean."

Steve is close enough for Tony to feel the warm weight of Steve's words against his mouth. To Tony, Steve is unreal not only in his handsomeness, but in his kindness and thoughtfulness, in his talent and his diligence. He feels familiar and safe despite being a virtual stranger and being with him is absolutely wonderful and absolutely terrifying. Tony understands the longing that lingers in the space between Steve's words; they may be pressed chest to chest, but there is still an unbridged distance between them caused by the uncertainty of their future. Tony knows that they need to talk about it—has known, since the moment he understood Steve intent when Pepper brought him to the studio—but he doesn't want to.

So Tony does what Tony does best, and ignores the problem by pulling Steve down one more time.

.

They have sex for a third time on Tony's couch.

Steve is a dichotomy of reverence and avarice as he worships Tony's skin with his greedy hands and greedier mouth. He offers damp kisses and sharp bites to the line of Tony's throat, to the swell of Tony's bottom lip, to the thin skin covering Tony's collarbones. When he rucks Tony's shirt up to his armpits, he then gives praise to Tony's nipples until they pebble beneath the rough pads of his thumbs; then he replaces his thumbs with his tongue, and plays with the nub to the point of oversensitivity.

"God, you're gorgeous," Steve murmurs when Tony pushes him away, overwhelmed by Steve's unrelenting ministrations. His eyes are illuminated by the changing light from the television and contrast with the deep shadows of night.

"When's the last time you looked in a mirror?" Tony asks around gasp.

Steve ignores the question and skims his hands down Tony's sides. His fingers catch on the waistband of Tony's sweatpants and boxer-briefs, and hook beneath the elastic material.

"Lift your hips," Steve commands.

Steve doesn't take Tony's clothes off fully, nor does he undress completely either. He simply pushes his own jeans and underwear over his hips, settles back atop Tony, and grinds their heavy erections together. Their lack of complete nudity feels unimportant; as long as Steve keeps Tony pinned to the cushion and frots against him, their dicks dragging dryly against one another, Tony doesn't care. So he winds his fingers into Steve's short hair ands holds on, kissing Steve sloppily as Steve takes care of him.

He comes moments before Steve, trembling down to his bones. Steve spills wetly against him before Tony's heart has had a chance to slow down. He collapses, his obscene upper body strength finally giving out, and tucks his face into the curve of Tony's neck. He is heavy and it is a little difficult for Tony to breathe, but Tony wraps his arms around Steve's narrow waist, palms splayed against Steve's hot and sweat-sticky skin. 

And if Steve hears Tony whisper, "I don't want to stop, either," then he gives no sign other than the tightening of his hold, as though he could make it happen through the force of his will alone.

.

Tony wakes with a start, disoriented and alone, naked in his wide bed with the sheets tangled around his legs. It takes him several, groggy seconds to remember that he and Steve had eventually made their way from the living room to the bedroom; they had stripped completely before they climbed beneath the chilly sheets, and pressed their bodies together as tightly and as perfectly as spoons side-by-side in a drawer. 

It takes Tony another few seconds to wonder where Steve has gone, his spot by Tony still a warm indent in the mattress. Yet before any sort of assumption can form, Steve appears, clutching a glass of water in his hand.

"I'm sorry if I woke you up," Steve says softly as Tony sits up. The sheets slide down his torso and pool around his wait.

"You didn't," Tony replies just as quietly, though his words are distorted by a wide, round yawn. Steve offers Tony the glass of water; Tony accepts it with a grateful nod. It's a simple glass of too-warm tap water, but Tony drains half of it before handing it back. Steve sets it on the bedside table.

"Couldn't sleep?" Tony asks as Steve crawls back under the sheets. He lies down on his side and opens his arms in offering; Tony sinks into his warmth, cheek cradled by Steve's warm bicep, his mouth and nose pressed lightly against Steve's sternum.

"Something like that," Steve responds as his spare hand finds the shallow dip in Tony's side, where Tony's rib cage ends and becomes flesh. Then, with the same blunt tenderness Tony has become familiar with over the past couple days, Steve murmurs, "We need to talk about it, Tony."

Beyond the windows of Tony's penthouse, the dark pitch of the sky is beginning to lighten with the impending dawn. The absence of sunlight makes every line blur, softening the harshness of reality. Combined with the steadiness of Steve's hold, this softness makes it easier for Tony to accept that Steve came to the city for the _Iron Man_ competition, and that within less than a week, he and Steve will be competitors on one of the most watched television shows of all time.

"I know," Tony whispers back. Dread creeps up his throat and makes his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, his nerves building even as Steve's thumb rubs soothing, absent circles against Tony's waist.

They lie together in silence after this mutual admission. Tony closes his eyes and matches his breathing to Steve's. He wonders how long it would take for his heartbeat to match Steve's as well; he wishes that they could remain suspended in that moment until he found out.

It does not surprise Tony that Steve is the one to break their tense—yet oddly peaceful—quietude.

"I want to date you," Steve declares boldly, bravely starting the talk they need to have. "These past couple of days have been more than I ever expected—more than I had ever hoped for, or dared to dream. I've always admired you on a professional level, and I've always been attracted to you. But you're so much more than your television persona and your good looks, and I want to know you. All of you. And if you're willing to give me a chance—"

"I think you have this backwards," Tony half chokes, half laughs. Steve has said more than Tony expected and it makes him feel unbalanced. He has to keep his eyes closed as he borrows deeper into Steve's body heart, sliding his calf between Steve's legs and curling his fists against Steve's abdomen. "You're the perfect one, not me. If anything, it's _you_ who should be giving _me_ a chance."

"I'm not perfect either," Steve answers, straight-forwardly and deliberately. Then he pauses; Tony can feel him tilt his head down, and rub his face against Tony's hair, breathing in the lingering smell of Tony's shampoo. "I've been told that I am very stubborn."

"If you're trying to defame your character, you're going to have to do better than that." Tony snorts. "There isn't a single successful chef on this planet who isn't a stubborn jackass—at least none that I've met, anyway."

Tony's statement is not met with laughter, as he is sure it would have been in a less serious situation. Instead, Steve continues to hold Tony as though it would be impossible for him to unlock his elbows and let go. Tony wonders if Steve is as reluctant as he is to leave the haven they've created from themselves in the center of Tony's opulent bed. From his quietness, Tony assumes he is.

"I know it's not going to be easy," Steve admits. "We live five hours from one another. I'm at my restaurant ten hours a day, six days a week, and I'm sure that when you're not filming _Iron Man_ or _Stark_ , you're traveling all over the place for guest appearances and signings and grand openings. We wouldn't see each other very often and—that can be difficult for many people. But I can't—I can't leave you and call it the end. I feel like this is just the beginning, and if you feel the same, I need to take that chance. I need to see if we can make it work."

Tony is stunned. He has been consciously ignoring the fact that their arrangement was finite and has not given much though to the ambiguous future beyond the next film date. He's more anxious about what will happen during _Iron Man_ than he is about what may happen after, to the point where he has not even thought about the difficulties they would face maintaining a long distance relationship. Steve, on the other hand, seems to have taken the opposite approach and thought about it quite a bit.

"How long have you been thinking about this?" Tony asks bewilderedly.

"Since we fondue'd," Steve admits without any embarrassment or sheepishness. "I don't think you realize how gone I am for you. I knew right away that I wanted to be with you longer than two days."

"And what about the competition?" Tony is curious and apprehensive, and the opposing emotions tangle up sickly in his empty stomach. "It can be—"

_Intense,_ Tony wants to say, but the word feels inadequate. How can he describe the rush of adrenaline as he prepares a dish, his heartbeat rabbit quick as he barks orders to a scurrying support staff? How can he explain the pressure exerted by the timer as it ticks inevitably down to zero? How can he summarize the relief as his meal is completed, and plated, as he finally allows himself to wipe the sweat that collected on his hairline and wash his clammy, shaking hands? And how—how—can he define overwhelming pride he feels as the judges praise his presentation, his ingenuity, and his undeniable talent as they once again proclaim him to be the invincible Iron Man?

Tony is competitive. He knows this. He has competed against friends—and against ex-significant others—in the past, but all of them were seasoned professionals. In comparison, Steve is inexperienced and virtually unknown. He has had two television appearances to date and neither of those has been on the scale of what is going to be filmed in less than four days. Tony doesn't want the stress to overwhelm Steve, nor does he want to become petty or jealous if Steve wins. What Tony has with Steve is unexpectedly powerful, but it is also very new, and Tony knows himself well. It wouldn't be the first time he lost, and lost poorly, but it would be the first time Tony would lose to someone he was interested in being with afterwards.

"I want to date you," Steve tells him again, steadfast, the words tangling up in Tony's snarled curls. "I want to learn what makes you laugh. I want to wake up next to you. I want to know what turns you on. I want to cook for you—and I want to cook with you—and I want to do that until you don't want to anymore."

"And what if you don't want to cook for me—with me—anymore?" Tony asks, small and masochistic despite a bubble of hope and happiness swelling beneath his ribcage and lifting his heart. "It's been a long time since I had to share a kitchen. I might be a terrible partner."

"Then we can work on it," Steve answers. He leans back and gently tilts Tony's chin up, his thumb resting in the hollow beneath Tony's bottom lip; the first thing Tony sees when his eyes flutter open is Steve's bright smile. "Besides, I have a lot of recipes I want to show you."

"A lot?"

"A lifetime."

Tony still has a thousand doubts sitting in the dark recesses of his mind, but he forgets them in the face of Steve's optimism. It's crazy, and stupid, and incredibly naïve to think that their brief affair will become more, yet for a moment, Tony believes. He believes that he and Steve will be together after the show; he believes that they'll overcome the hardships of maintaining a long distance relationship; and he believes that one day, once everything has worked out, they'll share a kitchen.

The ingredients are there, Tony supposes. All they need to do now is put them together, and wait.


End file.
